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life

We are blindfolded, limited by human understanding, yet somehow expected to choose what’s right. Well, what’s right? A thousand religions point a thousand different ways, and nobody has prood of anything because we’re here and the dead are there.
I see a soul in every face, a light emanating from the human presence. People are individual realities, separate entities of vision and thought, networked together to create a society. People are endless, and magic, and broken, and devastating, and beautiful. People are more than a physical feature. People are deeper, a link to another dimension, a layer of life beneath this physical crust, but we can’t see through the film of this dimension. Our bodies are shells, encasing universes inside. The world is full of millions, billions of eyes and brains, perspectives — endless perspectives and lives spanning centuries, each with their own world, taking everyone else for granted. And even realizing this, we can’t stop. We can’t stop taking each other for granted.
We are all so alone and so closely pressed together. We are isolated by our own mental and emotional inhibition.
People are inexplicably real. Their suffering is real, their souls are real, so how can you not care?
We spend all day looking at each other but still can’t realize we exist. I cannot put this into adequate words. There is something missing, some barrier between us and the rest of reality. A wall of apathy. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why it’s there.

So I wrote this sonnet about Captain Jack Harkness for an English assignment and I quite like it. How can you go wrong with a poem about Doctor Who anyway? Well here you go.

I have what most men only dream to have,
Striving to achieve what they must not own.
Like petty fangirls, they obsess and crave,
Desire carved into human hearts of stone.
Where is the Doctor? He’s avoiding me
And doesn’t see how I need him to try.
The last Lord of Time, oh, doesn’t he see
When I am alone, how I long to cry?
Back then, she brought me, from death, back to life.
What lies in the darkness beyond this light?
She has spared me from fear of any knife
And I know the answer to man’s endless plight.
But I alone live as all others die,
So no one is there to watch as I cry.

Its when you can’t get someone out of your head even if you want to. When everything you see and do reminds you of that person. When you doze off in class just to think about them. When you doodle pictures of their various facial features in your notebook during class.
It’s also very creepy, unrequited love. It makes you feel like a stalker. Finding pictures of them and being unable to tear your eyes away. Looking at their picture in your yearbook so often that you have the page number memorized… But you’ll never admit it. Maybe not even to yourself.
And you remember everywhere you’ve seen them around. You memorize everywhere they hang out and smile when you pass by, even when they’re not there.
It’s almost like having an imaginary lover. You make up all sorts of fantasies in your head, and a whole network of of secret thoughts. You even dream about them. And yet none of it’s real. They don’t love you back. And because of that, you always feel guilty, just a tad bit, when you think about them. Like you’re mentally raping their mere existence.
You fall in love with their personality. You fall in love with their peculiar habits and reactions and quirks. You fall in love with the way they talk and the way they act and the way they look and the way they move and every day, you learn something new about them, and every day, you just fall deeper in love with them.
But they don’t love you.
And you start to hate yourself. When you look at them, their appearance grates at your heart like sandpaper. You start to hate yourself for thinking about them all the time, and you hate yourself because you can’t get over them. You hate yourself because you’re a coward and you can’t confess your love, even if something good might come of it.
You hate yourself because of how you feel when they don’t talk to you. Even when you know it means nothing.
You tear your hair out wondering what they think of you. You torture yourself thinking maybe they hate you, maybe they don’t care about you, maybe you creep them out, maybe they’ve noticed how obsessed with them you are.
But there’s always that tiny glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, they love you too.
And perhaps that’s the worst thing of all.